


The One Where Grantaire Paints (or a study in nudity)

by everheartings



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Nude Modeling, Painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everheartings/pseuds/everheartings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's summer. Grantaire is an art student. Enjolras is rich. They meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Grantaire Paints (or a study in nudity)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takemetoyourglory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takemetoyourglory/gifts).



> A gift for Shira, who was feeling a bit sad. It was originally going to be a drabble and then it... grew. A lot. I hope it makes you smile!
> 
> Thanks to Amy for betaing!

Summer hits like a wave to the shore; one long roll of heat and sweat. It makes Grantaire itch. His shirt sticks to his skin. He picks at it absently, staring up at the circling blades of the ceiling fan. He’s lying on the floor of his bedroom, arms spread out beside him, legs kicked out. His hands are smeared with charcoal. There’s a crumpled ball of paper near the waste basket.

He’d tried drawing around three am—he’d given up by five and by six he’d rolled onto the floor because his bed was as hot as a furnace. He’s been there for the better part of the morning; it’s been too hot to do anything else. Grantaire wonders why he even came home.

The sound of a door slamming shut floats up from down the stairs, muffled from the heat. Grantaire groans. “It’s too fucking early for this shit,” he whispers to no one in particular. He hears his mother walk down the hall and stop at the door. She asks about his summer job—Grantaire’s brain goes into auto-pilot; he starts thinking about what he should do for his senior thesis next year, what shit he should force out of his fingers to please his professors since shit’s all he’s been able to make lately.

Somewhere in the midst of the conversation— _if you could call it that_ , Grantaire thinks, but he doesn’t care to participate—she brings up the empty bottles littering his room. He grunts in reply, mind drifting somewhere between the texture of the ceiling and color of his walls.

“Are you even listening to me?” his mother snaps. Grantaire falls back into himself. He sits up, running a hand through his hair. He smiles crookedly—to match his crooked nose and his crooked teeth.

“Of course.” He stands, stretching his arms above his head. “I’ll change and then go job hunting— _happy?_ ” He smiles as he speaks, but his voice is thin and flat. His mother sighs, but doesn’t reply. She turns away; Grantaire can hear her footsteps down the hall, the creak of her falling into bed. He already knows the disappointment that will be written on her face. He gave up caring about it years ago.

           

Grantaire gets a job at one of those tourist-trap shops that are a mess of stupid ass souvenir magnets, outdated maps, and every gossip magazine under the sun. The only good thing about it is the ice cream freezer, because wouldn’t you know it, the AC is broken and there isn’t a single fan close to the register. Grantaire spends most of his shifts leaning next to the open freezer, fanning himself with a magazine. Still, it pays minimum wage and gets his mother off his back.

Sometimes he might bring his sketchbook and doodle, but mostly he people watches—his inspiration ran dry long before the heat of summer. Today is a people watching day. His sketchbook is wedged in his backpack, which has taken up residence beneath the counter. Grantaire has his head almost completely in the freezer when he hears the wheezing _beep-beep_ that means he has to drag himself to the counter and pretend to be interested in another tourist family’s life story.

He leans against the counter, chin in hand, eyes unfocused. “Hello, welcome to…” His voice fades out. His eyes focus in on the tourist family—or rather, the son of said tourist family. The very tall, very beautiful, very much college-age son dressed in a designer polo and khaki ensemble that must have been ripped straight out of the ad of a magazine.

Grantaire swallows around the lump forming in his throat; his mind spreads out, eaten up by sensory overload. There’s the golden shine to the tangled curls, the perfect bone structure, the frail bend to the fingers—all of it begs to be spun out on paper from Grantaire’s fingers. He drops to his knees and reaches for his back pack—if he can just get his sketchbook out, he can get a rough sketch down, then go home and paint it later, he just needs to get his sketchbook out of this _fucking backpack—_ someone clears their throat above him. Grantaire starts, slamming the top of his head on the underside of the counter. He bites back a curse, slowly standing, a hand pressed to his head.

“Yes, how may I help you?” he manages to get out before his mind registers that Perfect Bone Structure Man and family are standing in front of him—and the parents look none too pleased. They dump their items onto the counter in a heap. Grantaire scans them with shaking hands, somehow managing to make small talk even though it’s all he can do to not turn and stare at Perfect Bone Structure Man.

“Are you staying for the summer?” (Yes.)

“In a summer home?” (Yes.)

“Have you been down to the boat dock?” (No.) “Well you should really head down there sometime, the water’s really nice this time of year and boat rentals are cheap.” (We have our own boat.)

Grantaire bags their things and sets it on the counter. “Well, I’ll probably be seeing you around then.” The parents make a noncommittal noise, but the son—with the perfect bone structure, the perfect hair, the perfect eyes, so perfect that Grantaire thinks he might drown in all that perfection—smiles.

And Grantaire has at least one foot on the ground now because there’s a gap between two perfect front teeth—and Perfect Bone Structure Man is no longer some unobtainable piece of marble, but a human being with air in his lungs and flaws in his smile.

So Grantaire smiles back and when the wheezing _beep-beep_ signals their departure, he fills the pages of his sketchbook with gap-toothed grins set in marble faces.

 

Grantaire runs into Perfect Bone Structure Gap-Toothed Grin Man a week after that first day in the tourist shop. It’s his day off, so he’s a little bit drunk. It loosens his tongue, so when he sees the man who’s filling up the pages of his sketchbook, Grantaire has no problem running after him and shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Hey, _hey you_ ,” which is the most ambiguous thing known to man, but Grantaire can’t really give a shit. But bless, Perfect Bone Structure Gap-Toothed Grin Man—god, Grantaire really needs to get his name—turns and slows to a stop.

Grantaire runs up to him, skidding to a stop. “What’s your name?” he gasps out between lungfuls of hot air.

“Enjolras.” He breaks into some long-winded explanation about how that’s really his last name, but his first name is absolutely _dreadful,_ but Grantaire is only half listening. He’s still caught up in the way Enjolras’ lips form words. His mind drifts back to the pages of sketches, a mixture of reality and imagination, back to the new tubes of paint he couldn’t really afford but bought anyways.

“Do you want to model for me,” Grantaire blurts out. Enjolras’ forehead wrinkles and Grantaire’s mind is a clutter of curse words, but he barges on full steam ahead. “I’m an art student, and I have to start my senior thesis next semester,” he gestures wildly with his hands, “And I’ve had the worst art block, but then I saw _you—_ and I just _have_ to paint you. Please.” Grantaire knows he sounds insane and he can only imagine how he looks, but Enjolras just blinks and then breaks into laughter.

Grantaire’s mouth goes dry and he does his best to hide the hurt in his eyes—it always ends up like this doesn’t it? He begins to apologize, to turn away and run and never come back—Enjolras’ hand snaps out and catches Grantaire by the wrist.

“No wait!” Enjolras says. Grantaire freezes, eyes to the ground. “Sorry,” Enjolras continues, “I wasn’t laughing at you, it’s just—you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.” Enjolras is smiling, but there’s a bite and Grantaire realizes there might be more to this man than a pretty face.

They end up sitting on a bench, eating ice cream.

“How does this whole model thing work?” Enjolras asks. “Do I get naked or what?” Grantaire nearly chokes on a chocolate chip.

“Um, only if you want to…” He trails off, mind stopping for a moment on the image of Enjolras _without clothes_ —the thought is promptly shoved to the back of his mind for safe keeping. Grantaire looks over and Enjolras has an absolutely wicked grin on his face.

“ _Perfect,”_ he says—Grantaire thinks his heart nearly stops.

Grantaire quits his job the next day. He doesn’t tell his mother.

 

Grantaire finds out two things on the first day Enjolras models—one, that drawing Enjolras in person is _so much better_ than from memory, and two, that outside of the fact that they think their parents suck, they disagree on basically _everything._

They’re in a back shed that functions as Grantaire’s painting studio; it’s dusty, but there’s an easel, some stools, and an old couch that Grantaire had salvaged from the dump. There’s also a single fan that needs about five extension cords to reach a working electrical socket and that tends to switch between _it’s-probably-moving_ to _so-fast-and-loud-that-you-can-barely-hear-yourself-think_ at random intervals.

Enjolras is lying on the couch, still clothed, while Grantaire sketches from one of the stools. Enjolras is going on about the oppression of minorities and how he plans to go fight for their rights after college. Grantaire laughs as he shades in Enjolras’ hair.

“You’re such an _optimist_ ,” he says. Enjolras rolls onto his side, dangling an arm off the side of the couch.

“And you’re such a _cynic._ ” Grantaire snorts.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he pencils in his initial in the corner, “I just happen to have a more… _realistic_ view of the world.” Enjolras looks like he’s about to argue, but Grantaire cuts him off with a wave of the hand. “I’m done for today.”

Enjolras sits up, tugging the rubber band off his wrist to pull his hair back up. He sits for a moment, looking unsure; Grantaire thinks the hesitation looks strange on a face that, hours before, had been lit up arguing the finer points of John Locke and the social contract.

“Do you want to—”

“Can I—”

Their voices clash together. Grantaire laughs. “Yeah, come look.”

Enjolras slips off the couch, shoes squeaking on the concrete. He peers over Grantaire’s shoulder; his eyes widen when he sees the sketches spread out across the handful of pages. Grantaire can feel Enjolras’ breath against his neck and he swallows; Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice.

“You did all _this_ ,” Enjolras points to all the sketches, “While debating politics and philosophy?” Grantaire shrugs and decides not to mention that he is also just a bit drunk. He doesn’t think it will be received well.

“I’m really not all that smart, just so you know,” he says. Enjolras snorts. Grantaire’s stomach twists—he really doesn’t want to get into the non-existent merits of his character, so he changes the subject.

“So, you want to come in tomorrow?” Enjolras looks like he wants to argue, but he lets it drop.

“Do I get to take my clothes off tomorrow?” he asks.

“What is it with you and taking your fucking clothes off?” Grantaire says because the alternative was to make unintelligible noises in the back of his throat; he _really_ needs to get this _attraction_ under control—it’s not a crush, it’s never a crush, because he can get hurt if it’s a crush, because there’s no way someone like _Enjolras_ would ever want to date someone like himself.

Enjolras smiles—and there it is again, the sharp one that had shown itself numerous times when he was going on about bettering the world or freeing the masses from the chains of oppression. It makes Grantaire wonder if he’s only the means to an end for Enjolras; perhaps a way to get back at his rich parents in a “fuck you, I’ll model naked because it will drive you both mad” kind of way. Not that it matters—Grantaire doesn’t mind if that’s the case.

 

Grantaire is setting up in the shed when Enjolras arrives; his paintbrushes already set in a dirty cup, his paints lined up next to them as he lifts a canvas onto the easel. He doesn’t even realize Enjolras is there until he hears a quiet cough. Grantaire turns to look and he can’t keep from smiling.

Enjolras is in a t-shirt and faded denim shorts. His face is dusted with red—somehow he’s managed to get a sun burn in the time since he sat for Grantaire the day prior. His hair is pulled in messy bun, hair falling in his face. He looks like the something out of a cheesy summer film and Grantaire doesn’t mind at all.

“Hey,” Grantaire says. Enjolras grunts in reply, hanging awkwardly in the doorway of the shed. Grantaire swallows nervously. “You can come in.” Enjolras’ jaw tightens and he nods. He moves to stand in the front of the couch. Grantaire smiles and turns back to his things, rummaging through his paintbrushes. At the foot of his stool is a bottle of wine he stole from the kitchen. When he turns to face Enjolras again, the blonde man is still standing in front of the couch, scuffing his feet against the floor.

“So, um, this is the part where I take my clothes off, yeah?” Enjolras tugs at a stray strand of hair.

“Yeah, usually,” Grantaire says. He can see the tension in Enjolras’ shoulder and the way his nails are digging into his skin so he adds, “Unless you don’t want to.”

“No! It’s not that…” Enjolras trails off. His face falls into a scowl and his fists tighten. “Societal beauty standards are _bullshit_ , complete and utter _bullshit_. Society has no right to dictate standards of beauty to anyone,” Enjolras voices rises, words falling from his mouth in a flood as he goes on, cursing society and politics. Grantaire stands staring, paintbrush in hand, trying not to lose it—and then Enjolras is wrestling out of his clothes, hair getting caught in his shirt, and Grantaire reaches for his bottle of wine because _god damn it_ he can’t do this. He sets his paints aside, reaching for his sketchbook; he draws, while Enjolras rants with wild eyes and wild hair, clothes falling to the floor one by one with a soft thump.

And then there’s just the quiet sound of breathing.

Grantaire’s heart is beating loud in his ears, his hands shaking. He’s never been the type to blush at a naked model, but then again, none of the models in his figure classes were Enjolras. He swallows, his eyes drifting up to look.

There’s the line of Enjolras’ shoulders, the dip where his collarbone meets his throat. There’s the faintest bumps of his ribs, rising and falling with each breath that passes from his lips. The frailness of his fingers that carries up into his arms; the flat of his stomach that leads to the plane of his hips and the extension of his legs. Grantaire notices the angry red across Enjolras’ chest, matching the red on his face. There’s a scar down Enjolras’ side; one of his hands curls nervously over it, then drifts to rest at his side.

Grantaire’s eyes slip back down to his sketchbook; the bottle of wine is grasped tighter in his hand.

“Is that wine?” Grantaire looks up and Enjolras is much too close—Grantaire forgets how to breathe. “You drink while you paint?”

“And you rant while you model?” Grantaire fires back. Enjolras scowls and turns away, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ll just go sit down,” he says. He curls up awkwardly on the couch, ankles crossed, body pulled close. His eyes are dark and his jaw is tight; Grantaire nearly tells him to put his clothes back on, but Enjolras meets his gaze. “You said you wanted to paint me, so _paint,_ Grantaire.” It’s the first time Enjolras has said Grantaire’s name since his sheepish introduction the day prior and it strikes him to the bone.

So he paints.

As time passes Enjolras begins to relax. He uncurls himself, stretching out across the couch; he tugs at one of the sheets Grantaire had laid out, picking at the threads. “This thread count sucks.” His voice carries out across the silence. Grantaire huffs, peering over the top of his canvas.

“Not all of us can afford Egyptian cotton,” Grantaire replies. Enjolras laughs and rests his head in the crook of his arm and smiles. Grantaire smiles back, carefully recreating the curve of Enjolras’ lips and the bend to his arm.

 

It’s no surprise that after Enjolras puts his clothes on and leaves, Grantaire goes to Jehan’s house to get wasted. Grantaire’s already half-way through his first bottle by the time he gets to Jehan’s front door—but it’s all the same really because Jehan’s as high as a kite with a hickey on his neck. Jehan grips Grantaire’s wrist and pulls him through the doorway, the slider slamming shut behind them.

One hour and two bottle of wine later, Grantaire is curled up on one of Jehan’s chairs. Jehan’s on the ground; he’s surrounded by scraps of paper covered in verse. He’d been writing poetry when Grantaire had first come in, but had given up in favor of counting the cracks in his ceiling.

“So, how was today?” Jehan asks, a knowing smile playing out across his lips. “Did you confess your undying love to him yet?” Grantaire glares down at him.

“I don’t _love_ him,” he snaps. His hand tightens around the neck of his wine bottle. “I just think he’s very attractive.” Jehan laughs, loud and high; Grantaire feels it down to his toes.

“You’re being dumb, R” Jehan sits up, one hand moving up to brush his eyelashes. He slams his hands flat to the ground and leans forward. “You just spent the past hour gushing about him. It’s love.”

“I’ve only known him for a couple of days! I barely know anything about him—I don’t even know his _first name_!” Grantaire’s voice cracks. He buries his face in the crook of his arm. “This is irrational.” Jehan sighs and slides over to rest his cheek on Grantaire’s leg.

“Love is never rational, R,” Jehan whispers. Grantaire doesn’t know what to say to that so he reaches for another bottle of wine.

 

A month passes in a blur of heat and paint fumes; there’s a quickly growing stack of canvases in the corner of the shed. Grantaire frowns at most of them—too rough, too sloppy, not good enough—but sometimes he catches Enjolras looking through them and smiling. They grow used to each other. Enjolras no longer hesitates to shed his clothes, just spreads out like a cat napping in the sun. Grantaire paints, shouting “Hold that _fucking_ pose, Enjolras, or I will shut of this damn fan off!”

They still debate over everything, sometimes hurling words sharp enough to hurt. Those times bleed out into Grantaire’s work, turning them dark and the brush strokes slashing. He frowns at those pieces most of all. But Enjolras likes them, likes watching over Grantaire’s shoulder while he paints with those strong brush strokes, with only a sheet wrapped around himself. It takes everything Grantaire has not to drop his paintbrush, spin around, and press a kiss to Enjolras’ lips.

Grantaire does his best to push aside his feelings—because he can’t really call it attraction anymore, not when he keeps thinking about what it would be like to do this every day for the rest of forever. He hides his blush behind a sketchbook, his shaking hands in his pockets. He doesn’t dare ask anything of Enjolras—just getting to paint him is enough.

 

Enjolras is taking a break when he asks the question, lounging on the couch with a philosophy book. He keeps looking over at the paintings resting in the corner. Grantaire doesn’t think anything of it until—

“Can I take one of these home?” Grantaire freezes, hand stopped halfway in the act of reaching for a paintbrush.

“What?” he asks, not quite sure if he heard Enjolras correctly. Enjolras slips off the couch and walks over to the stack of paintings. His hair is pulled up into one of his ridiculous buns and he’s slipped on boxers and a T-shirt—Grantaire’s mother has already walked in on a session once before, and Enjolras isn’t keen on it happening again.

“I rather like the one you painted last week,” Enjolras says, carefully sorting through the canvases. “The one with all the red. Can I have that one?” Enjolras turns, painting in question grasped in his hands. Grantaire stands and joins Enjolras in the corner.

“Sure, I guess.” Grantaire looks at the painting in Enjolras’ hands and winces. He reaches for it. “But not that one. You look… _inappropriate_ in that one.” Enjolras jerks it out of Grantaire’s reach.

“I look inappropriate in _all_ of them. I’m naked. That’s the point.” Grantaire winces again—because really artistic nudity wasn’t always meant to be inappropriate, but he doesn’t get the chance to school Enjolras on the topic because Enjolras is smiling his wicked, sharp smile again.

Grantaire remembers that first day and he feels like the means to an end again—but this time it hurts, just a little. He turns away and stalks over to his easel.

“Enjolras, why are you modeling for me anyways?” Grantaire’s voice shakes and he hates it. “I mean, you had no clue who I was—I was a random guy on the street and you just said _yes_ , no questions or anything. So, _why_?”

Enjolras shrugs, avoiding looking at Grantaire’s face. “I was bored. I didn’t want to be here and then you came up and it seemed like something my parents would _completely_ disapprove of.” Enjolras’ hands tap the edges of the canvas. “So I said yes.”

“So why are you still here?” Grantaire asks. He hears Enjolras sigh.

“Because I like you, Grantaire, and I like modeling for you,” Enjolras says, walking up and placing a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire’s throat tightens. He stares down at his feet.

“Just take the fucking painting.”

“Can I come in tomorrow?” Grantaire breathes in sharply through his nose—Enjolras quit asking if he could come in and just began showing up a while ago—and glances up. Enjolras has a concerned smile, the tip of his tongue pressing against the gap in his teeth.

“Yeah sure, if your parents don’t kill you first,” he replies. Enjolras smiles, clasping him on the shoulder before drifting off to get  dressed; After he’s left, Grantaire stays in the shed a while longer, the words _I like you_ running through his head as he cleans paintbrushes.

 

Enjolras hasn’t been in for three days. Apparently, Enjolras’ parents had _not_ reacted well to the painting, since the only contact Grantaire’s had is the occasional text message. They’ve been dragging him to all sorts of fancy rich people shit to keep him away; today he’s boating, yesterday was polo, the day before that was a trip to a museum.

So Grantaire sits in his studio, alone with his alcohol and his paintings. His mind drifts; he thinks about what it would be like to have Enjolras in his bed, about Enjolras curled up in a chair with a book and reading glasses slipping down his nose, Enjolras’ arms wrapping around his neck and nose buried in his hair. Grantaire’s lips curl and his stomach clenches—but he doesn’t push those fantasies aside. He thinks he could probably live on them, breathing them in like air when the summer’s over and Enjolras slips out of his grasp.

“I’m so pathetic,” he whispers, bottle dangling from his fingers. It slips from his grasp and hits the ground with a crash. He doesn’t bother to pick up the shards of glass. His hands twist into his hair and he bends over, elbows on his knees.

A knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts. Grantaire sits up—he isn’t expecting anyone and his mother never comes down to his studio, especially not since she found out Grantaire quit his job to spend his summer painting.

“Who is it?” His voice is hoarse and he grimaces.

“Me.” And Grantaire would know that voice anywhere, the tone and timber to it ingrained in his memory. Enjolras pushes open the door with a sheepish grin. He has a black eye and a cut lip.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Grantaire asks, rushing over to the door. “I thought you were out boating with your parents?” Enjolras smiles, so feral it chills Grantaire to the bone.

“Someone brought up politics,” he replies with a shrug—Grantaire knows all about Enjolras’ student protest group, about the cracked ribs and the bruises that he received, even as he fell to his knees and placed his hands behind his head, about the arrest that lead his parents to take him as far away from the city as possible, even if just for a summer. Still, Grantaire’s never seen _that_ side to Enjolras, the one willing to fight and claw his way to a brighter age. Even now he’s only seeing the aftermath—still, it’s a glimpse and that’s something.

Enjolras continues speaking, oblivious to the way Grantaire’s hands are fluttering at his side. “They sent me back to the shore so they wouldn’t have to deal with me. So I came here...” Absently, Grantaire’s left hand drifts up to brush just beneath Enjolras’ eyes and across his lips. Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat. Grantaire realizes what he’s done and his hand jerks back—Enjolras’ hands snaps out, fingers wrapping around Grantaire’s wrist, pressing the palm of Grantaire’s hand to his cheek.

“You know,” he whispers, “You _can_ see me outside of here.” Enjolras accompanies the word with a wave of his hand. “Like go out to lunch or take a walk down the beach.” Grantaire nods, fingers curling against Enjolras’ cheek. For a second Enjolras frowns, and Grantaire thinks maybe he’ll take it all back— _just kidding, never mind_ —but then he bends down and presses a kiss to Grantaire’s lips.

Grantaire whines in the back of his throat, his hands slipping up to bury themselves in Enjolras hair. It’s just like Enjolras to take what he wants and Grantaire couldn’t be happier. Grantaire pulls away, breathing heavy, resting his head against Enjolras’ forehead.

“I wanted to kiss you for so long,” he breathes, voice shaking. Enjolras’ fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

“Really?” he whispers into Grantaire’s ear, “Me too.”

           

Summer fades in a string of ever-cooling days and the quiet blink of fireflies. Grantaire spends the last day alone on the dock, feet dangling in the lake. Enjolras had left the week prior, sent off with secret kisses pressed to lips from underneath the dock—because Enjolras had insisted on going skinny dipping at least once and Grantaire was more than happy to oblige—and the promise of visits. Though Grantaire was a cynic to the last, he knew it was a promise he’d keep.


End file.
